


Pushback

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Community: space_wrapped, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/"><b>space_wrapped</b></a>  prompt “All Jim wants for Christmas is a little role reversal so he can take some orders from Captain McCoy.”  My apologies to the lovely, awesome <a href="http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/"><b>space_wrapped</b></a>  mods and the prompter that this post’s a day late, but anyone who’s read my PWP knows it’s really more like porn, what porn, because it always goes plotty on me.  This is no different.  Hope the prompter still likes the eventual reversal of roles.  Loads of angst, followed by NC-17 schmoop, role reversal of sorts, light D/s and light bondage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pushback

_**Pushback, Kirk/McCoy, NC-17, Space Wrapped 2010**_  
Title: Pushback  
Author: blcwriter  
Rating: NC-17  
Pairings: Kirk/McCoy, McCoy/Chapel, Kirk/Nobody  
Warnings: role reversal of sorts, het, light bondage, light D/s  
Summary: For the [](http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/profile)[**space_wrapped**](http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/)   prompt “All Jim wants for Christmas is a little role reversal so he can take some orders from Captain McCoy.” My apologies to the lovely, awesome [](http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/profile)[**space_wrapped**](http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/)   mods and the prompter that this post’s a day late, but anyone who’s read my PWP knows it’s really more like porn, what porn, because it always goes plotty on me. This is no different. Hope the prompter still likes the eventual reversal of roles. Loads of angst, followed by NC-17 schmoop, role reversal of sorts, light D/s and light bondage.

All he wanted was a little pushback—a little change from being in charge all the time. Was it too much to ask?

Apparently, yes, at least outside of Sickbay—but he used to be good at saying what he wanted without, you know, having to actually say it. He didn’t understand why it was all so fucked up now that he and Bones had gone from friends to … well, whatever they were.

It wasn’t like Bones was _shy_ \-- not exactly. Or at least, he never used to be. And still, if he thought Jim was sick or injured—hell, if Jim let loose with so much as a sniffle—Bones was all over him with that damned tricorder of his and that look in his eye that said _medical restraints_ if Jim tried to leave Sickbay or his quarters even a half-hour earlier than Bones thought he was ready. Which was kind of enough to make Jim stay put, both scared and a little excited. And lord knew Bones was a tiger in bed— willing to try pretty much anything Jim asked. _Jim_ asked.

And that was the problem. Well, part of it.

Bones never asked—demanded—pushed back. On the bridge _or_ in bed—unless it had something to do with the Sickbay or somebody’s health. Otherwise, even when he clearly had an opinion, he just—gritted his teeth and shut up. It was frustrating as hell, and hell if Jim knew what to do. He’d tried to provoke fights almost a dozen times in their quarters and Bones … he just sidestepped them all.

Back in school, Bones had been the devil’s own advocate-- because if Jim could argue until he was blue in the face, Bones had this vein that would bulge in his forehead as he turned red and yelled even louder, his accent getting thicker and hotter as he cussed Jim out and dissected Jim’s logic or tactics or whatever it was they were talking about. He wasn’t always 100% right, but he always had a unique perspective on shit, and of course he was as smart as Jim in a totally different way, which was why testing out his “cockamamie ideas” on Bones was always a good thing. And then they’d go and get drunk and Bones would slap him in the side of the head and everything would be fine. Well, except for Jim’s blue balls, but that had been then.

But all that had stopped after the encounter with Nero and the destruction of Vulcan. After he’d gotten things righted, gotten them plotted on a course back to Earth, made sure there was emergency staff and equipment to work on all the holes, fires and leaks all over the ship, Jim’d had to yell at Admiral Barnett on the main screen on the bridge that no, damnit, he wasn’t going to push the impulse engines any harder, his Chief Engineer had already _said_ they’d had all they could take getting away from that black fucking hole, and Barnett could court-martial him in three weeks, not two, thank you, if that was how long it took to get home, and Jim wasn’t risking one more precious life for some P.R. festival or whatever bawling out some yellow admiral back home might have planned, and “So fuck you very much, _sir_ , we have work do to and I have my people to care for, you can throw me out in three weeks and not a day before then, Kirk out,” and then everyone left on the bridge had hooted and hollered and giggled and clapped in that way that only the truly punch drunk—yet still standing-- can.

When he’d turned around, Bones had been leaning against a console at the back of the bridge, arms crossed and face—something, because god forbid Bones smile or laugh—so Jim, red-eared at the clapping, commented “and here’s Dr. McCoy to make sure I don’t get too big for my britches,” as he made his way over to Bones and the lift.

Bones hadn’t said anything as they made their way down to Sickbay, and Jim had tried not to think (failed, but he still tried) about the fact that they hadn’t exchanged any real words except for Bones’ “I hope you know what you’re doing” and Jim’s automatic and (maybe) immature “Thanks for your support” back on the bridge. But fuck, he couldn’t help it at the time, even if he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. Bones was supposed to be his best friend and if anyone was supposed to support you… but still. Bones wasn’t one to hold back his opinions. He’d just have to learn to put up with it when and if he stayed captain and when and if Bones agreed to stay his CMO. Which was a lot of damned ifs. And he needed someone to be honest with him, even if he didn’t like it all of the time.

But Bones had stayed really, really creepily quiet the whole time he was patching him up, which took a while between the bashed ribs and the stomped hands and the snapped collarbone—he didn’t remember that one, that or the burns or the cuts or the scratches on his back and all of the bruises—and he’d just been looking at Jim, thinking hard about something with that stone face of his that he got that even Jim couldn’t fathom—at least until he’d looked at some reading over Jim’s head and said, really quiet and even, “When’s the last time you ate?”

Jim had laughed—nervously, because this whole thing was just—usually Bones’dve chewed him out three times to Sunday by now and he kind of liked it like that because, well, it’d been a while since anyone gave even half of a shit—then shrugged his good shoulder. “I don’t know. Earth?”

Bones just nodded and turned to speak with one of the nurses before finishing the osteoregen on Jim’s dislocated shoulder. And then it was that silence again, until the nurse came back with some tomato soup, grilled cheese, and a big glass of warm (ugh) milk and he thanked her, but said nothing to Jim beyond “eat that,” as he physically turned Jim where he sat on the bed so he could work on the shit on Jim’s back.

He’d tried to eat—even finished-- but his skin had still started to crawl, waiting for the epic bawl-out Bones was clearly working himself up to. Either that, or he was getting ready to tellt Jim that as soon as they got back that was it, he was done, no more Starfleet for him. Not that Jim’d blame him-- and it’d be just as well that he’d never done a damn thing about all the more than just friendly thoughts he’d had about Bones, but the thought of not having him around at all anymore…. He’d broken out in more goosebumps and then cursed himself for being so stupid to think about this right _now_ because Bones gruffed “What?” and came back around, grumbling under his breath about food and core temperatures and idiosyncratic reactions and flashing his light in Jim’s eyes, making him flinch.

Jim’d turned his head, blinked, grabbed the bull by the horns. What the fuck, right? He was captain, he had to man up and do this shit in his professional life. Not like it was any damned change. He’d always had to do things for himself. This was no different, just because it was Bones and he’d gotten used to the guy …. “I just wish you’d start bawling me out so we can get it over with and I can get on with my day.”

Bones blinked. His lower lip actually sagged before he snapped his mouth shut. “I’m not bawlin’ you out,” he’d finally said, his voice cracked and glassy as he refused to look Jim in the eye—then got on with the rest of his work, a mere few minutes’ mending before he handed Jim a clean shirt and trousers, new socks and boots—the magic of some replicator somewhere and Jim would have to find out, because he’d been told most were down, and it wasn’t like the ship had been equipped for its full mission when they’d taken off—then said “You need to sleep.”

Jim’d gotten dressed, then shook his head. Fuck it. He had no idea what was up with Bones, but he had too much shit to do to figure it out. “No quarters, and too much work.”

He’d made his way out into the hall, halfway to the lift, before Bones caught up—caught his elbow, tugged him into somebody’s quarters, a still-made bed and a still-packed kit on the end and Bones looking kind of like—well, wet-eyed, oh Jesus, Bones never cried, never, as he repeated “You need to sleep, Jim, come on, just, please?” and his hand on Jim’s elbow was gripping too hard and shaking as his voice cracked on _please_.

“Okay, okay,” he’d—soothed—agreed, because the thought of Bones losing his shit made him nauseous, and shit, he didn’t know what to do, so he’d patted Bones on the shoulder, said okay again, kicked off his boots without breaking physical contact, except then Bones was bear-hugging him and Jim couldn’t quite breathe because Bones was a big sonofabitch for all that they were about the same height (“wiry little brat,” he used to smirk when they’d wrestle and Jim would usually lose while he did equations inside his head to calm down his hard-on) and shit—his shirt was getting wet, so he patted Bones’ back again and told him everything was going to be fine because-- well, it was, he’d make sure of it no matter what—but Bones was still snuffling, so Jim pulled back to look at him and tell him again that everything was going to be fine, really, it was.

Except the words had kind of gotten stuck and instead he’d kissed Bones, not something he’d really been _intending to do_ —but Bones kissed back like nobody’s business and then they’d fallen onto the bed and well—they both had been tired and so it’d been mostly kissing until Bones had stopped leaking tears—but the next morning?

Yeah. Bones had been game when Jim’s hard-on had been more than excited that Bones was still there, sprawled out and mouth open and one hand splayed in Jim’s hair, one leg thrown over Jim’s waist, like he was afraid Jim would disappear if he let go. Jim set about trying to eradicate that idea—and if they were both a little late to their shifts, well, the smile on Bones’ face and the way his shoulders set, more relaxed and more even—it had been worth it.

Until now. Now, it was just creepy, because he had the Stepford CMO and it was creeping him out. Always taking care of Jim’s health, making sure he was eating, bitching him out but only so far, speaking up about the medical things on and off ship and when he disagreed with Jim’s decision, well, Jim could tell that internally, Bones might be irked, but Bones was so fucking careful about the way he phrased things, like he was afraid of setting Jim off even though Jim could see—because he knew Bones, and this just wasn’t him—that he had more opinions than he was putting out on the table.

Frankly it was making Jim madder and madder, ready to burst, even as he didn’t know why Bones hadn’t responded to all of Jim’s prodding. Or his asking him what he wanted in bed when they were fucking—aw, hell, making love, too-- but “Anything, Jim, anything,” wasn’t an answer—it couldn’t be, really. A guy like Bones never _once_ wanted to top? Didn’t have more specific ideas?

And then, it finally happened.

In a staff meeting. Which was just fucking epic.

\--

The situation of Plggg had been unstable for years, and Federation diplomats had never been able to get a handle on things.

Federation spies, though—they’d released a burst of information right as _Enterprise_ arrived at the planet, none of it good, and all of it indicating that the plagues decimating the population had been engineered by both sides in a final burst in the decades-old struggle—as well as that the plagues would affect the genomes of those serving in ‘Fleet. Including the spies down dirtside, one of whom was a doctor.

He’d sent up what data he had, the breakdowns on the differing strains he’d been able to make, but he refused to send up any samples—and judging by the flop sweat and boils on his neck, it might be the last time Jim talked to him, too. Jim wished him luck—thanked him—took the condensed data packet for the man’s family.

“Too virulent,” he’d said in the one vidcomm he’d had with Jim, the which Jim had reported to the rest of his bridge crew and to Admiral Pike, who thank God was the admiral he had to report to these days, not some brass hat like Barnett or Komack.

Bones, of course, was all for beaming down and gathering samples and treating the thing there on the ground with his primary Sickbay team-- and for the first time in the five months they’d been together, he was right in Jim’s face, veins bulging, face red, in a complete frothing rage. If it wasn’t a literally life or death situation, Jim would’ve been fucking _thrilled_ to finally get some reaction.

And Jim—well, he had to stay calm. Sort of. Because he had a whole crew to take care of, and he wasn’t going to risk his CMO either.

“What about no don’t you get, Bones? These diseases are knocking out humans, Tellars, Orions, Andorians, fuck, even Vulcans. Not only are they killing off everyone else on the planet, they’re killing off any being who might beam down to help them. Both sides would really rather die than resolve this conflict— and I’m not beaming up any samples, I’m quarantining the planet, hell, the whole sector. I’m not wasting all the work Doctor S’leer did to get you that data so you could figure out how to cure this shit with what you’ve got and do it remotely—when you and your team cure these things whether they like it or not, then believe me, I will go down there and screw the goddamned Prime Directive, I will kick their asses six ways to Sunday until they’re all straightened out, but I am not going to risk my whole crew _or you and the best part of the Sickbay_ to some plagues that kill beings in days, sometimes hours.”

Bones had responded with a fuming tirade—a pent-up spew of anger and that was clearly whatever internal shit he’d been holding back all this time. Jim was a bully, he always had to have things his own way, he was a megalomaniac, he was making Bones forsake his ethic, those people were dying, goddamnit, he had no sense of humanity, etcetera, etcetera, and sure, Jim’s ears—hell, his whole face, most likely-- were red. All along, though, he’d always sort of wondered when this would come, always known it was all too good to be true. Bones couldn’t really believe Jim was good enough to be captain-- first expressions of doubt being first impressions and all of that truth.

He gathered his thoughts as best as he could—he had a crisis to get through, and he’d worry about broken hearts and all that shit later—and ignored the silence in the rest of the room.

“Whatever, doctor. I’m still the captain, and you’re wasting time here when you could be getting your team to work on analyzing the data and finding the cures.” And then he announced, in Bones’ presence, because he wasn’t going to be accused of being sneaky, that the transporters, shuttles and all other means of off-ship transport, including escape pods, were locked, including to Chief Medical Officer McCoy, and used an authorization code that was a failsafe against any override-- he’d encoded the authorization, not his usual one, into the ship’s database, programming it to survive even Bones’ attempts at a CMO override. Not that he wouldn’t immediately re-program it as soon as everyone was gone from the room. Bones was a pretty clever guy with the computers himself, and he had lived with Jim for two years.

That seemed to get everybody’s attention, and Jim used the silence to assign everybody their tasks—then got up and left the conference room, heading back to the ready room to contact Doctor S’leer once again.

Nobody answered the comm line this time—grimly, Jim smiled for at least that saving grace in the standoff he’d just had. He’d been right to keep everyone on the ship, whether Bones liked it or not.

\--

Bones and his team did find the answers—and Spock and Chekov did find a way to distribute the cures, for the air and water-borne plagues—but of course, Jim’s quarters were empty of all but his stuff by the time he got back to them twenty hours after that fight. Not that he was surprised.

As soon as one of the few spies who survived made contact to tell Jim that no new outbreaks had occurred, Jim and Spock beamed down with security teams and stormed the opposing factions’ strongholds, taking both over and forcing talks, then enforcing a truce when the decimated population rose up to assist the ‘Fleet troops. It took nearly a month, but both factions were ousted and new elections were set, to be monitored by a new ambassadorial team sent out from Central Command. When Jim finally met with the bridge crew and declared their part in the mission completed, he handed over command to the captain of _Agamemnon_ and wished them and the ambassadors luck as they continued to rebuild the planet.

“What little there’s left of it,” Bones groused from the opposite end of the table, even though the vidconference was still live with their sister ship. As with all of Bones’ bitching these days, Jim ignored it unless it required direct address, in which case he usually just said “objection noted for the record, Doctor McCoy,” which of course, didn’t make Bones happy either. But nothing Jim did apparently ever did or would, so why even try? He was just biding his time until Bones asked for a transfer, but until then, at least he was still the best CMO.

After the meeting, Jim proceeded down to the mess to grab something to eat. He was kind of surprised when Spock joined him—and moreso when Spock, _a propos_ of nothing—well, not nothing, but Spock was usually a bit more diplomatic—said “I do not comprehend why you allow Doctor McCoy to act in such an insubordinate manner.”

Jim shrugged. “You never knew him before. It’s kind of how he always was—although he’s especially pissed at me about Plggg. He’ll calm down and just be cranky and disagreeable and not so confrontational once a little time has gone by.”

Spock tipped his head. “He was not confrontational at all when you two were romantically involved, a connection I understand has been discontinued.”

Jim felt his ears color. He liked Spock—even thought of the guy as a friend, but emotional heart-to-hearts were not something they often shared, though he understood the guy was trying to be tactful in his own way. But Jim bitched (the little he did, and never about these particular issues, because if he couldn’t talk about them with Bones, he wasn’t going to talk about them with anyone else) about relationship things more with Sulu.

“Yeah. Which, um, was kind of becoming a problem, one I was trying to figure out when Plggg came up. So … uh. I don’t know.”

Spock took a sip of the tea he’d brought with him. “The doctor disagreed with you during the initial portions of the _Narada_ engagement.”

Jim snorted. He didn’t think Spock would know how fucking bitter the laugh was. “Yes, I recall.”

“And yet he was most angry with me for ejecting you from the ship, though I understand from Nyota that you two were not together romantically then.”

Jim suppressed a startle. Bones had never told him _that_ part, though he’d guessed Bones had been freaked out about something. They hadn’t ever really talked about it. Ever. But if… then when Jim was back on the ship, Bones still didn’t think Jim knew what the fuck he was … you know what? Fuck it. He was … he couldn’t. He had the rest of the crew to take care of and if the only way he could take care of Bones too was to not be involved with him, then so be it. As much as it sucked.

“You know what, Spock? Sometimes people can’t be friends and lovers, too, and sometimes when they try it, it fucks all sorts of things up. I’m just going to let Bones cool off and snipe and snark all he wants and let him do his job, because it’s more important that the crew have a kick-ass CMO than anything else, including a little insubordination. I don’t think it’s going to cause a massive outbreak of disrespect on the ship.”

Spock looked at him for a long moment, then nodded his head. “No, captain. I do not think your rift with the doctor will cause anyone to disrespect you.”

\--

Things got slightly better. Well, except for being the subject of Bones’ cutting sarcasm during the bridge officers’ meetings, but since everyone pretty much ignored the remarks, including Jim, except when the remarks were actually pertinent to running the ship, in which case Jim would say “noted” or actually ask a few follow up questions.

The first time he’d done that, boy hadn’t Bones looked like he’d been hit in the head with a board. But it did kind of suck, not really having any one to call a best friend, because he was buds with Hikaru, but he naturally wanted to spend time with his boyfriend and he and Chekov were so frickin’ cute it was nothing Jim wanted to get in the way of, and while he enjoyed talking with Spock on an intellectual basis—the guy was smart, had a unique and useful perspective, and was funny in his own weird kind of way— the fact was they just weren’t Bones, or how Bones used to be.

Not that Bones seemed to miss him. He tried not to listen to gossip, since a starship was like high school and if he listened to every damned rumor he’d never get any work done and hate half of his crew—but he knew Bones was screwing Nurse Chapel—pretty vigorously, too, since he’d walked into Sickbay late one night when Bones was _not_ supposed to be working to get something for a headache from Geoffrey and practically ran right into Bones jackhammering Chapel right into the wall of one of the little supply rooms where Geoffrey liked to hide out.

Fortunately, both of them were—really, really occupied with one another. Jim beat it the hell out of there before either one of them knew he was there. Not that he could get the image out of his brain, or Bones’ filthy drawl as he’d said “C’mon, darlin’, scream for me, I know you got it in you, I’m gonna keep fuckin’ you until you can’t even scream any more,” his ass flexing and arms taut as he held Chapel up and her head banged back into the wall and she made little squeaks in time with Bones’ thrusts…

Jim barely made it to the nearest bathroom-- got his pants down just mid-thigh before he came all over his hand, shaking and swearing and fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He wiped off his hand, his spent cock, flushed the towlettes, looked his flushed, shaken self in the mirror.

Pushback. Is that what he’d wanted? Bones bossing the shit out of him in their bed and pounding him into the wall and Jim not putting up some kind of fight—or Bones making it so he didn’t have to?-- because sometime—someplace—he really, really _needed_ to stop being captain. He was so fucking tired sometimes.

As if his head hadn’t hurt before he’d come down to Sickbay.

He splashed some water onto his face, squared his shoulders and looked himself in the mirror. Hell if it mattered now. Bones was with Chapel in some permutation—and Jim might’ve been with more than his share of beings, but he’d never been one to cheat or encourage someone else to. And in any event, Bones’ opinion of him was already set-- had been since the _Narada_. Nothing Jim was going to say or do about late-dawning realizations was going to change things, because in Bones’ mind, Jim had been a shitty captain from day fucking one.

On his way to the lift, he ran into a tired, disheveled Chapel and a smug-looking Bones. Nobody who saw them would have any doubt what they’d been up to—and fuck if Jim could help his ears turning red. He hated being so pasty. Stupid, dumb blushing. Stupid space, no fucking tan to help hide what he was feeling. But he didn’t have to share a lift with them, either. He nodded at both, ignored Bones’ “Jim,”— he hadn’t called him anything but “captain” in over a month-- and kept walking.

\--

So maybe the whole playing it cool and not being jealous that Bones was with Chapel thing wasn’t going so well, judging by the way he’d just snapped. But it wasn’t like Bones hadn’t started it. Sort of. And totally been insubordinate, too. He was just the CMO, he wasn’t thinking like a captain _had_ to. Like Jim had to.

“What kind of fucking moron are you, to go down there and engage in single combat to the goddamned death? Jesus Christ! That’s no way to resolve a dispute!” Bones bellowed, red and right in his face. He smelled like sandalwood, same as ever, and Jim’s dick was hard in his pants, even as he snapped and bellowed right back.

“The kind of moron who’s your captain for now, and the kind of captain who’s studied their culture and realizes it’s the only way the Federation will earn their respect and the right to engage in any talks whatsoever, much less get back the crew held hostage down there, including your girlfriend. We _all_ know, doctor, from day fucking one, you made it clear right there on the bridge, that you _never_ thought I knew what I was doing, so I’ll draw up your transfer papers if I get back since I’m just a snot-nosed brat with an ego like a black hole who’s out to prove whatever psychiatric diagnosis you’ve come up with this week. And if I don’t make it back, you can be satisfied that you were right and serve under someone who’s more measured and logical or whatever else you prefer. But I will always, always, always take care of my crew, and if you don’t know that by now, you never fucking knew me at all. So, yeah. Thanks for the support, Bones. This meeting is fucking adjourned.”

So what if he had tears in his eyes? He was man enough that he didn’t care if Pavel or Hikaru or anyone else saw him crying. There was more important shit than his dignity at the moment.

You could’ve heard one of Uhura’s earrings drop. Jim didn’t wait for Bones’ inevitable angry rejoinder, he just snapped “Scotty, transporter in five,” and stalked out of the room.

\--

He shook hands with the chieftain, agreed that they’d send people down in two days for talks, watched with satisfaction as the last of his people were beamed up to the ship. Then he hit his own comm, looking with only—numbness—at the Pilistinian giant laid out on the ground.

“Kirk to Enterprise, one last to beam up.” He thought he sounded pretty damned good.

Scotty replied, and he felt the tug of the transporter. Jim smiled, because he loved his girl, how clean and white and shiny she was, her engines humming under his boots and the constant noise of crew in the halls.

He got off the transporter pad. Greeted Spock, who was looking— concerned, hunh, and he said Vulcans didn’t show emotion. He gave him a quick rundown on the chief and how everything was all set for talks to get started the day after tomorrow—and then—oh, yeah, well, that thing about your life flashing was bullshit, because everything just went kind of grey and cold except for the warm blood still pulsing out under his hand from that well-placed shot from that spear, right before Jim had gotten that stone in his sling and gotten in that last lucky shot, felling his opponent with a perfect between-the-eyes shot.

If he hit the floor, he didn’t know—but he thought he heard Bones, yelling at him to hang on, godfuckingdamnit, because if he died so help him he’d come bring him back just to kill him himself and Jim felt like smiling, because that was so like the old Bones, so bossy and sexy, but that was how Jim pretty much knew he was a dead man, because shit like that didn’t happen in real life.

At least he’d gotten his crew all back safe and sound, and only one casualty. Not a bad mission record at all.

\--

When he woke, it was dark, and the bleep of the biobed announced that he wasn’t dead. Good to know, that. He scrubbed his eyes, felt for the should’ve-been-fatal spear wound, found only smooth skin, and then felt for the other good breaks and blows that had landed and would’ve meant internal bleeding at least, maybe more.

Nothing hurt, and he didn’t feel dizzy, which must mean he was all mended up. Carefully, Jim sat, swung his legs over the side of the bed-- when he found that nothing made him feel worse, he stood and got a t-shirt from the pile of Sickbay clothes kept in one of the cabinets for patients.

He poked his head into the only office with a light on, since he seemed to be the only patient—and Geoffrey M’Benga was out like a light, snoring to make a hog jealous. Jim smiled, then scrawled him a note on some actual paper left lying around, since there weren’t any nurses anywhere to be seen.

The haptic interface gave the time as top of gamma and Spock as having alpha, so Jim took the nearest lift back to his quarters, sent Spock a written comm with a time delay to be delivered at the start of his shift to let him know he was back in his room. That done, he tossed the Sickbay t-shirt and pants in favor of some old sweats he preferred, and settled into his side of the bed—since sap that he was, he’d never felt right taking up the space Bones used when he’d been there.

Jim rubbed his eyes—he was a moron, he knew it, and in the privacy of his quarters he could admit that if he’d just been straight with himself a little earlier on, maybe he could’ve said something, sussed Bones out just a bit… but regrets were for people who had time to do something about it, much less people who were inclined to listen back, which Bones wouldn’t have been—and in any event, Jim had a starship to run.

Regrets weren’t for him—so he pushed them aside, told his stupid hurt feelings—his own fault, really—to shut the fuck up, and told his brain to go back to sleep.

\--

“Jim. Jim? C’mon, now, wake up, will ya?”

Jim blinked and swatted at whoever was shaking his shoulder because he was warm and finally getting some sleep in his own bed—he always slept like shit in the Sickbay, no matter what kind of meds or coma or dead he was—and grumbled “ger-off, sleepin’.”

“I know, but since you eloped from my Sickbay without anyone actually getting to confirm you weren’t mostly dead anymore, I’d kind of like to get that technicality out of the way.”

It sounded like Bones, but that didn’t make any sense, because Bones wouldn’t… Jim had always gone to see Geoffrey except for a few awkward times when he’d run into Bones when he needed something for headaches or burns from working on stuff with Scotty or whatever he needed. He pulled the covers away from one eye enough to see who the hell it was in his room so he could court-martial them later, but it _was_ Bones, which didn’t make any sense.

“Not dead. Um.” He offered. “I didn’t want to wake Geoffrey up.”

Bones quirked a sardonic eyebrow. “Clearly. Since he was still snoring when I got there this morning and you were nowhere to be found.”

Jim nodded, not that he supposed much was visible under the covers pulled almost all the way over his head—but he didn’t feel like coming out, either. He thought for a moment about what he might say, then decided on as short a version of truth as would get Bones out of the room quickly. He hoped.

“I’m fine. I’m not going up to the bridge. I might talk to Spock and Pike later after I sleep more, so … yeah. Not mostly dead. Thanks.”

Bones pursed his lips—looked like he was winding up to really let loose—then blew out a long shaky breath.

“I never thought you were a bad captain, Jim. Never. Or that you didn’t know what you were doing. I was just … so fuckin’ scared about what could happen and you were just going throwing yourself into the thing full fucking bore, it scared the holy bejeezus out of me it all just … it all came out wrong, and then—I don’t know what the fuck happened. I should’ve said something back then and I didn’t. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry it got so fucking ugly.”

Jim nodded—decided he couldn’t really accept an apology like that—it made sense-- with the blankets pulled up over his head, so he sat up partway, said “Okay, Bones, thanks, I appreciate that,” looked the guy in the eye, gave him a nod so he knew Jim knew he meant business, and waited in case Bones had anything else he wanted to say.

After a weird, long moment where Bones just kind of—looked him over while Jim waited to see what he’d say—he added—“And I’m not transferring off of this ship.”

Jim nodded. “If you want.”

Bones seemed to think for a really, really long moment after just _watching_ Jim. “Yeah. That’s what I want.”

Jim had no fucking idea what was going on in the guy’s mind—but at least he wasn’t picking a fight just to be nasty or yelling at him-- so he shrugged, yawned, and crawled back under the covers. “Fine, Bones, whatever you want.”

He already had the covers back over his head when Bones said something like “Later, Jim,” but he wasn’t quite sure. He _was_ awfully tired.

\--

“Okay—so, holiday party’s all taken care of for next week, live vidconference slots are all scheduled, fresh food’s all in, parts resupply is confirmed, anything else?”

Jim ticked the last item on his agenda, then looked up at his bridge crew. Meetings were so much more efficient now that Bones wasn’t snarking all the time, although the mother-hen thing—he’d kind of forgotten about the insistence on breakfast and the way Bones would just kind of _look_ at him until he finished his oatmeal and fruit-- and Uhura nodded her head. “Ten crew members have not responded to my requests that they provide me with addresses for their scheduled slots—I’ve routed the names to you, Jim. You’re on that list, but the way.” A gorgeous smile curved her mouth, teasing, but she didn’t know any better, so Jim pasted on one of his own and shook his head like he was just one more naughty crewman. He’d deal with that later, send her an email or something where he didn’t have to look at her face and the inevitable sorry expression that would shift into her eyes.

“Ah, then, my error,” he said. “I’ll send a message to everyone to nag them to get back to you,” he said with a smile, then deemed the meeting concluded. Well, except for that last piece of orange, which he shoved in his mouth as he chewed and thought about what he’d say to Uhura.

He was reviewing the other names of the crew—when Bones’ voice interrupted as everyone else filed out of the room.

“You free for lunch?”

They’d done this a few times—eaten together in public somewhere. It wasn’t really comfortable, and Bones had a weird new combination of honesty and guardedness to him, talking about his feelings way more than he used to and always _looking_ at Jim for some mystery response.…

Jim shook his head. He figured the guy was just trying to… what? Not be so at obvious odds for the rest of the crew’s mental health? Jim had no clue. “Sorry. Meeting with Spock and a vidcon with Central.”

Bones actually looked disappointed, enough so that Jim said “But … coffee? After beta? I’ll swing by Sickbay?” It was a suggestion he regretted immediately, thinking of the possibility of more Bones/Chapel encounters, a thought that turned his stomach sour— but hey, he was a big boy, he would live.

Bones, though, seemed not to notice, nodding instead. “That’d be good. I’ll see you then.” He gave Jim a rare smile, one that brought out the gold flecks in his eyes, then left the room and Jim to his list of crew.

Ah, well—no time like the present. He emailed the crew who hadn’t gotten back to his senior comms officer, then composed his own answer.  
 _  
Uhura,_ he wrote. _I won’t need my holiday vidconference slot. Allocate the time to whomever you think could use it the most, or divvy it up among the senior bridge crew. Thanks, Jim._

It was honest. Even if it did beg a whole bunch of questions. And it got the task done, so Jim could get on with his day.

\--

Bones was in bent-head conference with Chapel when Jim walked in to Sickbay— and they broke off as soon as he entered, both looking guilty.

He supposed he should be glad at least they weren’t kissing, though why they should look guilty when it wasn’t like he and Bones hadn’t broken up first…

Whatever. It wasn’t his problem.

“Coffee?”

Bones nodded, shucking his lab coat and other technical gear and washing his hands before meeting Jim where he stood—yeah, fine, awkwardly, not far inside the doors. They walked toward the officer’s mess, grabbed some coffee and Jim took some fruit, then _tsked_ when Bones replaced it with cake.

“You could stand to put on seven kilos,” Bones said, voice more than a little bit stern.

Jim snorted and put the cake back. He was in the mood for a banana, not chocolate cake. A slice of apple pie appeared on his tray. “I’m serious, Jim, you’re at the low end of your weight range for your height,” Bones grumbled, “not out of it, but if you did get sick or something happened, your crazy metabolism wouldn’t help.”

Jim glared—and Bones glared right back—and yeah, right, this was one thing Bones had always been sassy about. Fine. If this was the price of not being at cats and dogs with his CMO, well, whatever.

He asked after the business of Sickbay, some research that was going on there, brought up some crewmen he thought were in need of attention from one of the counselors or morale officers for some reason or other, and absently picked at his food and his coffee as he looked over Bones’ (really broad) shoulders or watched his (really capable) hands and didn’t look at his (very kissable) mouth or his face or his eyes or any of the stuff that always made Jim want to lean in and just—

“What?”

“I asked why the hell you turned over your vidconference slot to Uhura?”

Jim put his fork down slowly. Carefully. It was a big ship, but a really small family as these things tended to go, and sure, people would be inclined to gossip—but he didn’t like the idea that this was what Bones and Chapel must have been discussing. He really didn’t want to think which one of them Uhura had told, because he knew Chapel and Uhura were friends.

“Because I don’t need it.”

Bones’ face got all scowly. “Look, I mean, I know you stayed on campus at school, but there’s got to be someone you want to talk to…” He was getting that stubborn set to his jaw that made it clear he was prepared to argue this thing for hours.

Jim inhaled-- exhaled. They’d always sort of had an agreement not to talk about personal stuff back at school—hell, in general-- not that it had worked all that well. He kept his voice low, though, because it wasn’t everyone’s business. “My brother ran away when I was twelve, he died not long after that. My grandparents died when I was thirteen. My mom’s ship disappeared when I was fifteen. I ran away from my asshole stepdad after as soon as I got the news. So no, I don’t need that call. The time’s better spent by those who have someone who gives a goddamn.”

He smiled, picked up his tray, dumped the half-eaten contents, and went to find Lieutenant Uhura. He had some reprimanding about gossip to do, whether she was trying to be helpful or not.

\--

Jim was lying on his sofa, reading the culture reports for the upcoming First Contact in the B’laras system, when the doors hissed open and Bones let himself in. Jim pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“It’s considered customary to knock,” he said mildly.

“It’s considered customary for the captain to put in appearance at the holiday party,” Bones said. Mildly. He was all gussied up, trousers and a green sweater and shirt that made his eyes just look—Jim shut that vein of thought off.

“I told Spock to tell people I was under the weather.”

“Then you should’ve come down to Sickbay,” Bones said, like this was some logical argument and not just Jim not being in the holiday mood. Hell, any mood whatsoever.

“Bones, it’s free food and booze and it’s not like I’m going to sleep with any of them, so whether I show up doesn’t make a damned bit of difference.”

“Right, because Jim Kirk’s so fucking unpopular that no one enjoys his company or wants to talk to him, ever.” Sarcasm hung thick in the air.

Jim stabbed the save button on the PADD and swung his feet onto the floor. Bones didn’t get it, but trying to explain—it’d open whole can of worms better left closed, not when they were just rebuilding some kind of … working relationship, he guessed that’s what it was. Besides, things were still pretty tense, and Jim walking off on Bones last week hadn’t made shit any better, Bones kept looking at him like he was waiting for Jim’s head to explode—so he demurred, not that it wasn’t partly the truth. “I’m not in the holiday mood. I’m just … tired, nobody needs a party pooper captain around.”

Rising from the couch, Jim hitched the low waist of his sweats and tightened the string, poured himself water from the pitcher he’d set on the table, readjusted his glasses. “Go on back, drink the good whiskey I ordered, have a good evening.” He even flapped his hand, made shooing motions as Bones just stood there and watched Jim, his face getting more and more angry until he finally spoke.

“Those are my sweatpants.”

Jim looked down and—oh. Yeah. They were.

“And my sweatshirt.”

It wasn’t like Jim could really deny it. He hadn’t gone to the University of Mississippi, even though the lettering was more like ghosts than actual letters.

Bones scrunched up his eyebrows—“You were sleeping in those after Pilistinia, when I had to come track you down after you snuck out of my Sickbay.”

“I left a note—it’s not my fault Geoffrey was sleeping.” Bones didn’t say anything, so Jim shrugged. “I’ll have them washed and get them back to you. Sorry.”

Something in Bones’ face sharpened and changed, and all of a sudden he was right in Jim’s space, his hands clasping Jim’s forearms. “Why’d you give up so fucking easy? You just let me walk away.”

Jim’s throat went dry—not the conversation he’d been expecting, but fine. “I didn’t—I’d been trying to ask you for months what you wanted, although granted, provoking a fight isn’t the best way to ask you, but I could tell you were frustrated and I wasn’t doing something right— I knew I wasn’t making you happy-- but you just kept tamping it down until Plggg and then you just exploded. So I figured, well, that was it, you’d pretty much said what I’d been wondering about, so—and then you got together with Chapel, and it was clear she was making you happy,” _stupid red ears_ “so I wasn’t going to chase after a conversation that had no point anymore.”

Bones' hands on his forearms were so warm, so firm, so steady—not like that very first time, when he’d been shaking so hard. Jim never should’ve kissed him in the first place.

“But I was such an asshole to you. You must have been pissed off as hell at me half of the time.”

How to explain? Jim shrugged. He hated talking about feelings—didn’t know why they had to talk about this now anyway.

“Look. Yeah. I was embarrassed, mad at myself, hurt, all that shit, but—the fact was you could get your job done as CMO and you were happy in your own way no matter how pissed you still were at me, so—my personal shit was irrelevant, because nothing was wrong with the ship. I know you don’t get it—you don’t have to, believe me, I hope you never do—but the only thing that matters if everyone on the crew is okay.”

Bones’ eyes sharpened, hazel to green. “So if you’re miserable but everyone else is okay, that’s alright? If you’re bleeding out on the transporter room floor from a barbarian fucking spear but everyone else is perfectly healthy, that’s totally peachy?”

Jim nodded. Smiled that Bones finally got it. Because-- yeah. Really, it was. Even if he was tired tonight and didn’t feel like watching everyone besides him being happy as clams.

Bones huffed—growled—“So when do you get to _stop_ being captain?”

“I don’t.” He was going to ignore the way his voice got tight on that last word, and turned his arms in Bones’ grip. He gave Bones’ forearms a squeeze and gave him a smile. Things’d be fine. Eventually. “Go back to the party, Bones. Have a good time.”

A muscle in Bones' (firm, lickable) jawline ticced once—and then he said—“You’re a moron. We both are,” before he smashed his mouth over Jim’s, plundering and sucking away all the breath in Jim’s body—or maybe Jim was just so fucking astounded that he was gasping like some vapid bottom-y hero in one of those stupid romances he had stored in a secret file on his PADD. Their teeth clacked, and Jim tried to grab hold onto Bones, but he had an iron grip on Jim’s arms and was already propelling them both back to Jim’s couch, shoving Jim down as he yanked Jim’s—Bones’—fuck, he was confused—sweatshirt up over Jim’s head and then left it tangled, Jim’s hands stuck up over his head somehow as Bones came back to bite and suck at his lips—jaw—mouth—until Jim finally wheezed “Chapel” and Bones paused long enough to grab Jim by the jaw, look him in the eye and say—“we left off after you got your fool self practically killed, you have _got_ to listen to gossip”—and then bit one of Jim’s nipples and sucked in a way that made Jim jerk and his and his cock jump in time with the strokes of Bones’ tongue over the hardening nub.

The sweatshirt thing was driving him nuts, so he started to work on getting his hands free of all of the mess—until Bones stopped what he was doing and looked up with this look that said _medical restraints_ except even hotter and said “leave it for now” before dipping his head and biting the opposite nipple.

Jim couldn’t stop the whimper that made its way out—and when Bones palmed his cock through his pants, the restricted writhe Jim couldn’t quite stop, the fact that he could look but not touch—Jesus—was that a whine? James T. Kirk didn’t whine during sex. Except—he apparently did. Bones clambered off of the couch—with a filthy, filthy smile on his face, and a hint of the smug smile he got when he’d figured out something nobody else had—then yanked down Jim’s pants, but not all that far, not even down to Jim’s knees, then shoved his hand tight between Jim’s legs. There wasn’t all that much room to work, but something about the pressure and the way Jim couldn’t move and Bones’ fingers kneading his balls and then fuck—

He choked on Bones’ name when wet heat enveloped his cock, choked again at the immediate suction, too hard, too fast, it’d been too fucking long, he was going to lose it, so he went to tug at Bones’ hair and couldn’t-- _couldn’t, fuck, could not move his hands, shit_ \-- his vision sparked—whitened—lightning surged up his spine— couldn’t think about anything about that mouth just sucking and sucking and then…

He blinked. Came to on the bed. Completely buck naked.

“Um.” Forget his damn ears. He could feel the blush start at his _toes_. There was a first time for everything, he supposed, but passing out from coming was not something James T. Kirk did. Damnit.

“Did you even jerk off all that time?” Bones was buck naked too, his dick throbbing and red. Clearly, Jim hadn’t been out all that long.

“Once.” Jim was not going to go into further detail. Even under torture. Especially under torture. “I had a ship to run.”

Bones eyed him more than skeptically. “Uh-hunh.” Leaning over the side of the bed, he rooted around for the lube, then came up with the bottle—dusty—said nothing as he wiped it off on the sheets on the side of the bed, then tossed it to the head of the bed.

“Hands up—over your head,” he finally said.

“What?”

He smiled, then moved so he was straddling Jim—ground his full cock against Jim’s spent one, and that was enough to stir Jim’s, twitch his hips, make him grab for Bones’ ass, because he had the best skin—warm and just the right amount of muscle and hair.

“I said,” he half-whispered, half-growled in Jim’s ear, “hands up—over your head. You said—when I told you I wasn’t resigning—whatever I want. Didn’t you mean it? And then” and his voice got rough—raspy-- a little bit louder, like he was recalling something he didn’t quite like-- “you said you missed the old Bones, so bossy and sexy,” and shit—Jim must’ve said that aloud in the transporter room—“and this is what I want, Jim. I want you to let me be in charge for a change.”

He put his hands up.

Bones smiled. “You can hold on to the bedframe—the pillow—your elbows—I really don’t care. The only rule is—hands an’ arms up, because I’m gonna touch you wherever and however I want, and you don’t get to give me any damned orders. You’re not the captain tonight, darlin’.” He stopped long enough to kiss Jim and leave his lips burning-- jaw aching-- levering himself up for more, but Bones laughed and shoved him back into the bed. “And not really a rule, but a suggestion—I do like it when you make noise.”

Make noise Jim did. He hadn’t ever bothered trying to imagine the specifics of what he wanted—because it wasn’t like it would do any good, and all it would do was fuel his frustrations. And while he and Bones hadn’t been super-vanilla—they’d had toys and used them—or, to be more specific, _he’d_ had toys and used them on Bones—they’d never done anything like this and now some part of Jim’s brain that still kind of worked wondered if it was because Jim’d been afraid of bringing it up because it was what he wanted instead.

Each time he half-arched to touch—because fuck, it had been so fucking long and Bones was so goddamned gorgeous—but _no_ , he reminded himself-- Bones would stop what he was doing long enough to kiss him or stroke some part with his hand like he was petting Jim for being a good boy or something. Damned if that didn’t make Jim squirm and turn even redder than he already was because this was so weird, somehow, strange, not really right and yet fuck if he didn’t want it—and meanwhile, Bones seemed determined to suck and lick every part of Jim’s body, the kinky sonofabitch, he was even sucking Jim’s _toes_ which shouldn’t feel that good, shouldn’t make him fucking whimper, shouldn’t go straight to his cock, even with his awesome hands kneading Jim’s leg, that knot under his knee that never quite seemed to get better and it popped—kind of hurt, but then he was doing the same thing to Jim’s opposite leg and then—he moaned as Bones sucked Jim’s balls into his mouth, Jim’s knees shoved into his chest and pinned there while Bones’ breath whiffled through his nose over Jim’s dick.

It felt like forever while he teased at Jim’s sac, his tongue teasing light at the skin, then lapping the balls, first one, then the other. Jim moaned—couldn’t help it, and Bones chuckled, the thumb of one of the hands pinning his legs to his chest giving him firm stroke that clearly said _make that noise again_. Since Bones took that particular moment to suck and roll both balls against his cheek, Jim had no problem groaning even louder and longer this time. If this kept up, he’d have no voice at all.

By the time Bones was done stabbing his tongue into Jim’s hole, sucking as his fingers held Jim open and Jim’s legs shook with effort—fuck, his whole body shook and he’d already come all over his stomach when Bones’d blown him again. He’d stopped digging crescents into his elbows with his nails—stopped ripping the sheets at the head of the bed—was basically just flailing with the effort not to touch and just—

“Please…” he begged, and fuck if his voice wasn’t practically gone from all of the yelling.

“Please what?” Bones’ voice was wet—thick—and Jim could barely open his eyes, he was so wrecked, but Bones looked so fucking smug, so gorgeous, and he still hadn’t come. Jesus. “Please stop? Please keep eatin’ my delicious asshole? Please suck my dick more and lick all the jizz off of my stomach? Please fuck me into the bed until I’m a pile of jelly?”

The thought of that last one made Jim’s legs—currently over Bones’ shoulders—quiver more than a little, even as the only coherent word he could still get out of his mouth was just “please.” Which wasn’t even a word so much as a squeak.

Bones’ dick, red and throbbing and half-wet with all the pre-cum he’d released onto himself, gave a visible bob, and he lunged forward, grabbed the lube and slicked himself up faster than he could say “You’re a moron.” Jim took this as silent permission to ignore the no touching rule, and pulled his legs up even higher, because with all the time Bones’d spent rimming and eating him out—

It was a really loud squeak. If he’d had any voice left, it would have been a manly bellow of pleasure as Bones bottomed out right away and hit Jim’s prostate on the first shot—but then he grabbed Jim’s wrists, pinned them flat to the bed, said “no touching” in this growl that meant business, and savaged Jim’s mouth before he got back to work doing just as he’d said—fucking Jim until all he could do was just take it because yeah—there was cum leaking out of his cock, sort of milking out every time Bones hammered into his prostate and Jim half-whiting out from the pain-pleasure of it every damned time, but he couldn’t make any more noise, just little wheezes, and he was just holding on for the ride, letting Bones do whatever he wanted because... it was Bones. It’d be okay in the end.

Something inside him finally shattered and everything went sparkly-colored. He floated awhile, vaguely aware that Bones was coming too, so he grabbed him with jelly-ish arms, then just sort of laid there with his eyes closed, not trying to sort out whose heart was beating where or whose arm that was for the moment. When he finally felt like blinking his eyes open, he was flat on his back and Bones was curled on his side, his head on Jim’s stomach, Jim’s hand in his sticky-gross hair. The covers had somehow landed on top of the bureau.

He swallowed, tried speaking.

“Wow.” His voice was totally shredded.

Bones chuckled, rolled off, leant up on his elbow. He had something—Jim had more than a sneaking suspicion—matting his hair on one side.

“You could try asking for what you want, rather than picking a fight or repressing the shit out of yourself because you’re a moron who doesn’t think he gets a separate life,” he said, voice still thick and southern.

Jim nodded. Swallowed again. He really needed some water. He said so. “You could actually answer a question, and not be so fucking sarcastic, saying the opposite of what you mean when you’re freaked out.”

Bones came back with the water, and Jim drank about half, then offered the glass back. Bones contemplated it for a moment, then drank and set the empty glass on the bedside.

“Deal.”

Jim nodded, then climbed out of the bed and wrapped his arms around Bones—touching, just because he could. “C’mon, let’s take a shower. You’ve got jizz in your hair, and not that it isn’t cute, but it’ll be hard to get out in the morning and I don’t think that’s the hair trend you want to start.”

Bones snorted and kissed him, then followed him into the bathroom. “Boring and parted, please.”

Jim snorted as he ordered the water turned on, then chanted the words to a really old song. “Lady in the streets, freak in the sheets.”

Bones mock-scowled and pushed Jim back into the wall of the shower. “I’ve been called lots of things, but no one’s ever called me a lady.” He then proceeded to do a number of very freaky, unlady-like things. It was quite a while before they ever got washed.  



End file.
